Space Whale
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Canada x America drabble] America is gaining weight as winter approaches, and responds with the usual panic and despondency. Luckily, Canada has some perspective for him.


"I'm the size of a space whale," America mourned, looking down at the numbers that were peeking out from above his toes on the scales.

There was a moment where Canada wasn't sure if he should comment or not, even though he was standing right next to America in the bathroom, trying to roll the toothpaste tube up from the bottom so it wasn't all malformed. He hesitated, let his gaze pass over America's body—the well-defined muscle tempered by soft pudge at his waistline, the strong arc of his spine and the roundness of his hips where his pajama pants were getting snug—and decided to be brave. "You don't need to worry about it yet, but maybe cut back on the fast food again."

"Oh fuck," moaned America. "You think I'm getting fat, too."

Actually, Canada didn't think it was that big of a deal; he kind of liked seeing his brother well-fed and happy. Usually because it was _his_ food that was making him happy. "Stop shoving words into my mouth. I just figure, fast food isn't good for you. At least not so much of it."

America stared down the scales with a grim ferocity that Canada hadn't seen since Vietnam. "If I work out more, it'll go away."

"Okay."

"It will. It has before."

"That's true," Canada agreed. He put the toothpaste away and shut the medicine cabinet with a precise click. "Do you want me to help you work out a diet plan, too?"

America looked at him unhappily.

Oh. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. Canada scratched beneath one of his ears and bit his lip. Sometimes it was impossible to upset America and other times, all it took was a single word—even decades later, he couldn't get the science down perfectly. "Though, I kinda like you like this."

"What, _fat_?"

Canada slid around him from behind, molding to America's back and folding his palms over the slightly pronounced tummy. He pressed a kiss to the subtle well between America's shoulder and neck, feeling the pulse jump beneath his lips, the way America tried to suck in his gut in a hurry. Oh—no, that wasn't going to do at all. He squeezed tight and murmured, "It happens like clockwork, you know. Every coming winter, eh? You start eating anything you can fit in you, because every one of your 300,000,000 people are stocking their pantries and buying out the last of the harvest. The children are burrowing in winter coats, the slow cookers are puttering away in the kitchens."

America's breath hitched. He pressed back against Canada, their cheeks brushing together. "Like clockwork…?"

"Mm-hmm. And just like every single time before, you'll hide out the worst of the cold days, and we'll have amazing sex in front of my fireplace because I don't turn the heat on high enough for you. You'll let the extra weight keep you from shivering and then you'll lose it come spring. So what's it matter?" Canada kissed the line of his jaw, where bone met the flesh beneath. "The only person that'll see you until then is me."

"Yeah…"

"And I love you like this. Something to hold onto."

"Oh," said America.

"Mm," Canada agreed, cupping his hips. He hummed a bit against America's throat.

They stood there like that in silence a while, with Canada's fingertips gently petting America's navel and America gradually relaxing and encouraging him with quiet, content noises. After a bit, America stepped off the scale and kissed him again—languid, hot and damp and wanting. He kissed him like Canada was the focal point to his universe; he kissed him like an invitation for more.

Canada thought briefly about coaxing America up on the bathroom sink, sinking between his thighs, and making love to him. Just like that, right here. But then he glanced at the mirror and decided maybe he should keep America away from that for a few days, at least until he wasn't so weirdly self-conscious—and a bed would be nice, anyway. Canada liked having sex in bed. He was a little vanilla like that.

"You're sure m'not a space whale?" America mumbled against his mouth.

Canada smiled. "There are no whales in space," he said.

"There are in _Torchwood_."

"Yes. In the television show."

"Stop being condescending," America ordered.

"I'm not!"

"Dork," said America, and when he pushed up against Canada again, he didn't bother sucking in his stomach at all.


End file.
